The Pirate's Daughter

The Pirate's Daughter
Helen Dickson

She's Everything He Despises–And Desires…When Captain Stuart Marston meets, woos and then marries Cassandra Everson in Barbados, he is unaware of her real identity. And then the truth is revealed–she is none other than the daughter of his enemy, a notorious pirate who has terrorized the seas.Cassandra is unable to understand why her once passionate husband can no longer bear to be near her. When they're forced to spend days–and nights–together, it's more than obvious that Stuart still desires her. If only she can make him see that she's still the loving, steadfast woman he first lost his heart to….

“When you married me I thought it was me you wanted.

“Does it really matter who my father was?” Cassandra asked forcefully.

“In this case, yes, it does. Before this, to me you were one person—now you are someone else. I cannot reconcile myself to that just now.”

“I realize how difficult it must be for you and I do not ask for your forgiveness at this present time. But no matter who or what my father was, it does not make me less worthy. My feelings for you remain unchanged. Can you not feel the same? Must you despise me?”

Her obvious distress made Stuart go pale, and he moved as if to go to her, but he checked himself quickly. “Last night I was not aware of your disgraces when you so excited my desire. But since learning who you are I cannot help feeling that I have betrayed my brother’s spirit….”

The Pirate’s Daughter

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

HELEN DICKSON

was born and still lives in south Yorkshire with her husband on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

November 1671

T he time for the hanging of Captain Nathaniel Wylde, the notorious pirate, was set for twelve noon at Execution Dock on a bend on the north bank of the River Thames at Wapping. It was here that the gallows stood on the muddy shoreline near the low tide mark, the usual place for the execution of pirates who infested the seas. Once captured, they came under the jurisdiction of the Lord High Admiral, who was responsible for all crimes committed at sea up to the low-tide mark. Above that, all felons were dealt with by the civil courts.

The gallows was a simple structure of two wooden posts, made to look monstrous and sinister by a hangman’s noose suspended from the wooden cross beam. After the hanging the body would slowly become submerged by three consecutive tides washing over it, before being taken down and fitted into iron hoops and chains and suspended from a gibbet on the lower reaches of the Thames—as a dire warning to seamen who have a mind to fall foul of the law.

Colourful and exciting tales of the exploits of Nathaniel Wylde, the handsome, charismatic pirate, were talked of from the Caribbean to the South China Seas. A huge crowd had gathered on the shore, and some had taken to boats on the river, to witness his hanging, to see for themselves the man who was a living legend, captured by pirates while crossing the Atlantic to the Caribbean to start a new life following the defeat of the Royalists at the Battle of Worcester twenty years ago.

He had survived two brutal years as a galley slave with the Barbary Corsairs in the warm, sparkling waters of the Mediterranean, before escaping and capturing his own ship. With the lure of adventure strong in his veins and mastering the skills of navigation and seamanship surprisingly quickly, he proceeded to sail the oceans unchecked, preying on heavily laden merchant ships, and answerable to no law or code of conduct but the pirates’ own.

Unlike most pirate captains who were notorious for their ruthlessness and unspeakable cruelty, Nathaniel Wylde—unprincipled swashbuckler and undoubtedly a rogue—had acquired the reputation of a ‘Gentleman Pirate’ owing to the charm and courtesy he showed towards his victims, which tended to cloud the serious nature of the crimes perpetrated against them. His crew, although illiterate men, were unusual in the fact that they were not the typical miscreants as on other pirate ships, renowned for their foul language and drunken debauches.

Standing on the edge of the crowd stood Cassandra Everson, the hood of her cloak pulled well over her head—partly to protect her from the steady freezing rain falling out of a leaden sky, but more to shield her from recognition by the man, her father, who would soon become the focal point of the crowd’s attention when he mounted the ladder and prepared to breathe his last.

‘I wished to spare you this,’ murmured the tall, thin man by her side, his hand on the hilt of the dagger he carried at his waist, concealed beneath the folds of his cloak. ‘We should not have come here. I promised Nat to keep you away—not to let you see him die.’

‘I had to come. You, more than anyone, should know that. We will not have to wait much longer. It is almost time.’ She fixed her steady gaze on Drum O’Leary. His features were concealed by his cloak, for with a price on his own head it was imperative that he wasn’t recognised. Drum had taken a great risk in coming to the execution, but when he had arrived at Everson House in Chelsea to break the news of Nat’s capture and impending execution, against his wishes she had insisted on accompanying him.

Drum O’Leary was a fearsome-looking individual, an Irishman, an arch-villain, and to cross him was to court a dagger between the ribs. An old cutlass wound on his cheek pulled his mouth upwards slightly, causing it to be permanently fixed in a lopsided grin, giving him a sinister appearance. Outwardly Drum acted and spoke politely, but beneath that calm façade was a man who would show no mercy when crossed.

He had acquired the name ‘Drum’ while serving in the King’s army as a drummer during the Civil War. He was Nathaniel Wylde’s most faithful and trusted friend, and he had been by his side for twenty years. Forced to leave England after King Charles’s defeat at Worcester, they had both been captured and served as galley slaves together, but Drum had not been on board the Dolphin, Nat’s ship, when she had been captured, owing to the fact that he had been on the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of West Africa visiting his Portuguese wife.

A line of suffering appeared around Cassandra’s mouth and Drum was touched by the grief he saw in her eyes, which were so like Nat’s. Execution Dock was not a place he had brought her to without qualms.

‘Don’t worry, Drum. He will not know I’m here.’

Cassandra was insensible to the bitterly cold November day and the stink of foul odours coming from the river as she strained her ears and eyes, searching the road for the cart that would bring the condemned man to this awful place of execution, until, at last, she heard the hollow rumble of wheels and it came into view.

It had crossed London Bridge from Marshalsea Prison on the south bank where, after Nat had been intercepted off the coast of West Africa by an English privateer, a heavily armed vessel licensed by the Admiralty to attack and seize the Dolphin, he had been confined for the past three months. Having been tried and convicted of piracy at the Old Bailey Sessions Court, and unprepared to confess to his crimes, Nat had been sentenced to hang.

The cart was in a procession led by the Admiralty Marshal on horseback. Cassandra had not laid eyes on her father for nigh on fifteen months, but she recognised him immediately. His familiar mane of silvery blond hair was like blazing sunlight on this dismally cold November day. A heavy growth of beard covered his usually clean-shaven face, and his skin, turned golden brown by many years at sea and hardened to the texture of leather, had paled after his long weeks of incarceration.

Cassandra pulled the hood of her cape further over her face and gripped it together across her mouth and nose so he would not recognise her when the cart came close, for he would not want her to witness his final degradation and humiliation. When she looked on his beloved face, scalding tears burned the backs of her eyes and she almost choked on a lump in her throat which she swallowed down, angered by her own weakness, for it was not in her nature to cry.

When the cart reached the river side he climbed out, followed by the prison chaplain who had accompanied him, hoping the prisoner would see the error of his ways and repent of his sins before the end. He was given the chance to address the crowd but refused. Fixing his eyes on the gallows he strode forward, giving everyone watching the distinct impression that he was as eager to depart this world as he had been to enter it.

There was a swagger to his gait and a carefree dignity, for as he had lived his life so he would meet his death, tall and unbowed, his pale golden hair flowing free like the dancing pennant of his ship, the Dolphin, and as imposing as a tall poplar clothed in shimmering leaves of summer glory. Villain and blackguard he might be, but at his moment of death he exuded an air of panache which could bring a macabre smile to the lips of even the most hardened, sanctimonious spectator.

A cold fury washed over Cassandra as she watched the ghastly scene being played out before her eyes. She was angry and frustrated by her inability to speak to him, to say goodbye. Digging her fingers into the palms of her hands, she heard the words of the chaplain reciting the prayers as he followed her father across the mud. She was insensible to the stirrings of the crowd, which moved like a storm-tossed ocean, as she watched her father climb the ladder and the executioner place the noose around his neck. At that moment she felt as if she were dying herself. Drum stood beside her, as immobile as a figure of stone.